ORIGINALLY POSTED: May 21, 2008
TITLE: Unchosen
AUTHOR: JK Philips
RATING: NC17
SUMMARY: Sequel to the Death Brings Clarity saga, now nearly ten years after The Fine Art of Blackmail. Giles wanted to prevent his daughter from inheriting her mother’s destiny. He wanted to give his son the choice he never had. He wanted Buffy to live a lifetime beside him. Fate had other plans...
SPOILERS: Everything up to “The Gift”
DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters; they are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy & Fox. I simply am doing this for fun, and non-profit use.
EMAIL:
. Feedback motivates me to write faster.MY WEBSITE: www.jkphilips.com
---------------------------------------------------- Part 7b: Bonus NC17 Scene Giles and Buffy stayed on their separate sides of the bed, their clasped hands the only point of contact. He couldn’t still his thumb from tracing up and down the length of her first finger. Holding her hand was the only real touch they’d shared since she’d breezed back into his life. She’d tried to kiss him at his office, and he’d remained aloof. She’d massaged his leg, but it hadn’t been skin to skin like this. The touch of her hand was electrifying. Every nerve felt alive and tingled where they touched. They were only holding hands, but after more than two years, and alone in the dark, it was incredibly erotic. He could feel her proximity not more than six inches away, the warmth of her body radiating across the small space between them, so incredibly tempting. Her breathing was shallow and uneven. She was awake still and waiting for him to make the first move. He was hard for her. The last time they’d made love had been in the training room, the day before her death. He’d wanted her to defy prophecy. He’d wanted to give her something to fight for, something to live for. She had died anyway. She couldn’t escape prophecy, but now it seemed she had found a loophole. And she was grabbing for this second chance with both hands, defying prophecy in her own way. And he was the coward, the quitter. He couldn’t touch her, kiss her, love her, taste her and ever let go again. It would kill him. He swallowed back his desire, ignored the stirring demands of his body, and turned his face away from her. He didn’t roll onto his side, back to her, although he wished he could. He needed more distance between them. But that would require that he release her hand, and that he wouldn’t do. He forced his thumb to stop its steady caress of her skin. But he still held tight to the soft hand curled around his own. The sensation of her skin against his pulsed like a line of fire straight up his arm and then clear down to his groin. He closed his eyes and silently begged for sleep to come. When finally he slipped into dreams, he expected to find them colored by want and desire. But he never expected to find them set in the old library from Sunnydale High. Then again, she had mentioned high school, accused him of treating her with the same sense of decorum he had shown back then. He was at his desk in the small office behind the counter. The layers of tweed felt like a familiar uniform. They had all initially dismissed him as a stuffy academic, defined him by his formal, antique attire. They didn’t understand dressing for the part. He was the Watcher to the Slayer. His own identity, any need for self-expression, was subordinate to that sacred role. Buffy, of course, had always refused to surrender her identity. Perhaps that was the secret to her success. As she barged into his office, dressed impractically for winter, even a California winter, let alone for slaying, he bit his tongue and withheld any commentary on her fashion sense. Because she wasn’t a girl of sixteen. She was the Buffy he had cherished. A woman of thirty-one, mature beyond her years. A wife and mother and the longest-lived slayer on record. She wore the clothes of her high-school years like a costume. The wicked grin she gave him hinted at the role-play she had in mind. She twirled the stem of a sucker between her fingers, popped it in her mouth, and spun to give him the full 360-degree view. Her flowered skirt barely covered her bum. In fact, if she bent over, it was quite possible that it wouldn’t. Her boots hugged most of the length of her legs. But her thighs were tantalizingly bare. Her blouse was rather… blousy and diaphanous, layered over another more substantial although more low-cut top. Overall, the clothes were the fashion of her sophomore year. In his day, girls would have been sent home had they dared to arrive at school in anything so revealing. In Buffy’s day, girls like Willow who dressed more conservatively were ostracized as horribly uncool. She strolled closer, still sucking on the hard candy, its little white stick spinning between her lips. Had she actually been sixteen, had they actually been at the high school, she wouldn’t be having this effect on him. He had never fantasized about her like this back then, not even in the darkest corner of his mind. But she was a grown woman donning the costume of her youth. They each had their uniforms to suit their roles. And at this point in their relationship, this was a game he could safely play with her. Her perfectly polished nails loosened the knot of his tie, running the silk fabric through her fingers and freeing its tail from his waistcoat. She seized it with one fist and jerked him closer, removing the sucker from her mouth with her other hand. “You hardly ever wear ties anymore,” she complained. “The privileges of rank,” he answered her. She reeled him in by his tie, and when they kissed, he tasted the lingering cherry from her sucker. It had stained her lips a darker red. And her tongue too, he imagined, although her clever tongue was too busy to prove or disprove that theory. They pulled apart, panting hard, and he had a complaint of his own. “You never wear your uniform anymore.” She tossed the sucker over her shoulder, and he didn’t even care where it landed. She tackled the buttons of his waistcoat with both hands. “You liked the uniform, huh?” “The only benefit to being married to a copper.” He didn’t bother with stripping off her clothes. They didn’t leave much to the imagination anyway. Instead, his fingers explored the bare expanse of thigh between boot and skirt. “The only benefit? What about my handcuffs?” She’d undone his waistcoat buttons, but before she could continue on to the shirt buttons beneath, he shoved her back against his desk, pressing kisses along the curve of her neck. “We already had a pair of those,” he reminded her. “How ’bout your thing for police cars?” She gasped as he bent his head and mouthed her breast through the gossamer fabric of her blouse. Her fingers threaded through his hair and dragged him up to her lips. “Over it,” he answered her. He kissed her, chased the cherry flavor around her mouth with his tongue, and bent her back over his desk until the angle became awkward and they were forced to rearrange themselves. “Right now,” he promised, “you on top of this desk. A thousand times better than the hood of any police car.” She hopped up on the edge of his desk, and her miniskirt rode up so it covered nothing and revealed all. Pink, lace panties. He fell to his knees to worship her. He left her boots on, but slipped her panties off with great care, like a bridegroom removing the garter. Starting at the knee, he kissed a trail along the inside of her bare thigh, and then repeated with the other thigh. He teased her, only his breath touching where those thighs met. She groaned and grabbed for his tie, using it like a leash to lead him back up to her mouth. The cherry taste was fading, but the dark stain on her lips remained. She turned her face towards the hand that cupped her cheek, and then sucked on his thumb, her tongue darting out to caress his palm. Mystery solved. Her tongue was stained as red as her lips. While he stroked her face and kissed her lips and opened his mouth for that dark red tongue of hers to do its own exploring, her hands busied themselves undoing his trousers. His breath hitched with each accidental brush of her fingers across his erection. And then she had freed him, and her touch was no longer accidental. “God, how I’ve missed you,” he breathed into her neck. His desk was the perfect height. Almost as if professional carpenters had measured the distance from floor to cock and adjusted the desk’s legs accordingly. Her miniskirt gave him unhindered access. Perhaps that was why they had been so fashionable. It didn’t bear thinking about. He entered her slowly, savoring the feel of her surrounding him. Impatient little Slayer, she wrapped her legs around his waist and hurried him along. He felt her boot heels in the small of his back. Her hands slipped beneath his tweed jacket and untucked his shirt from his pants. Her hands worked their way beneath the waistcoat and the dress shirt until he felt her nails graze across the bare skin of his back. He groaned and thrust hard, the desk rocking once beneath their combined weight. He reached across his narrow desk, built small to fit in his tiny office, searching for leverage, an anchor. Pencil holders and picture frames toppled in his haste to stabilize their coupling. Considerate carpenters had built the desk the right depth for his arms, the desktop the right thickness for his grip. He held himself steady, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other braced against the back of the desk, as they rocked back and forth in an increasing rhythm. All those lonely hours of research spent at this desk, and he had never imagined how brilliantly it fit them, equalized the difference in their height, and supported them solidly on top of real wood and quality craftsmanship. Of course, back then, he would have never even considered it. But it did make him regret, for the first time, that his office had blown up with the school. She stiffened in his arms, every muscle clenched tight around him, as she reached the pinnacle of her pleasure. Her eyes were wide and open and unguarded as she stared into his. The pure joy of her climax washed over her face, and she smiled as she kissed him. But he had yet to reach his own release. He shifted their positions, changed the angle, adjusted the tempo, growled his frustration into her shoulder, but his own climax remained elusive. He tried for a change in venue. He picked her up from the desk, still hard inside her, her legs still wrapped around his waist and her boot heels still digging into the small of his back, and carried her into the library proper. She might be the mature woman from his most recent memories, but he was the younger man from the earlier days of the high school library. His legs were strong and stable beneath him. His skin was smooth and nearly unblemished beneath her touch. Before Angelus. Before the spear that had nearly killed him. Before Sulla’s bullet. Before Darla’s torture. Before the mace-wielding vampire who hadn’t granted Giles’ wish to end it. That put only ten years between them, right now, in this dream, barely more than there’d been between him and Jenny. She reached behind herself and tried to sweep the center table clear of books, unsuccessfully, and he set her down, uncaring of the volumes they might damage. This table was far too tall, not designed for their comfort in mind, and so he climbed onto the table with her, laid down on top of her on this bed of books. She kissed him gently, relaxed and tender in her blissful afterglow. But he was frantic with need. He resumed the earlier pace from his office. He kissed her deeply and kneaded one breast in his palm. She met each thrust with her own, clenching the muscles of her core around him, imprisoning him and then releasing him. She arched beneath him, shaking her head back and forth as she came for the second time. He couldn’t seem to follow her. It was driving him mad. He pushed her knees up for deeper penetration. He rolled them both so she was on top. He slowed down. He sped up. He stripped off her blouse and peeled off her halter-top, caressed the bare skin of her back and arms. He slid his hands beneath the hem of her miniskirt and cupped the curve of her bare bottom. The ache of his desire grew more urgent with each stroke, with each kiss, with each thrust. Like finding the right combination to a lock, he desperately tried all the possibilities. Pinned against the wire mesh of the book cage. Deep in the stacks, his back against the bookshelves and Buffy on her knees before him. Entwined on the floor behind the checkout counter. On the stairs leading to the stacks, Buffy giggling and twisting away from the steps digging into her back. Rattling the drawers of the card catalogue. Back in his office again, this time on his little two-seat leather couch. Not long enough for a proper lie down, she straddled his lap. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d brought her over the edge. Her lips were swollen from kisses. Her eyes were dark, only a thin rim of blue around her dilated pupils, and her skin was flushed and glistening. She tried, bless her, she tried. Every trick she knew. He hung on the knife’s edge, but couldn’t fall. He cursed against her shoulder, a string of profanities that made her laugh in spite of his predicament, as he desperately chased his release with a hunger and a longing and a sharp, aching need that he had never imagined. “Buffy,” he grated out between clenched teeth, begging, pleading, as if she were the one withholding his moment of rapture, so terribly yearned for. “Why?” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, rested there against his brow, and cradled his head to her bosom. So loving and caring as she tried to calm him. But he was too far into their dance to stop now. Only his elusive climax could bring him the peace he sought. “Because you won’t let yourself,” she whispered the answer against his skin. “You won’t let yourself fall.” He bolted upright in bed, dragging Buffy awake by their clasped hands between them. He heard the front door slam and realized the front door banging open is what woke him. The next moment, he heard both children shouting for him as they barreled up the stairs. “Dad!” “Father!” He piled the bedding onto his lap to hide his obvious arousal. Buffy stayed on her side of the bed, arranging the covers around herself as well. As the children charged through the bedroom door, without knocking, he could see the panic in their eyes. One word, in unison. “Spike!” ***
Please, send me feedback, either by
or form:
Form processor by www.tectite.com